Lost And Found
by nightButterfliesReicheru
Summary: Sometimes you have to leave home to find a family.


This is the New York third of a story that I have co-written with night-star-93 and JustMeForNow. I hope you enjoy it.

-_-

New York, population 8,274,527. Surely, in this ocean of people, milling about in their unknowingly insignificant lives, I would be safe.

I was no longer safe where I was, a great darkness was spreading through my world, choking light like a weed chokes young buds. I thought I had found a home, a family, but I was wrong, I was betrayed by the one I trusted the most, and I had to leave forever. I got a new identity, a new name, a new mission. The name of the one I was on a protection detail for ran through my head over and over again, like a broken record.

But this time I was ready. Last time I made the mistake of thinking that it was permanent, that maybe they'd given up, that I was finally free. And that's when it was all snatched away. This time, I'd promised myself not to get attached, not to make friends, got involved with anything that couldn't be finished in a phone call.

It was going to be hard, but that's why I was chosen for this. Me and two others, because we don't get involved, we go in, get the job done and leave, no mess, no tidying up needed.

But last time, I couldn't help it. I fell for someone, someone I couldn't possibly fall for, someone whose days were numbered. But I fell for him anyway, and now the world is suffering. Because of me, what I did. This was my mess to clear up, and that's what I'm doing. And I have no qualms about getting rid of whoever gets in my way.

-_-

I stepped off the subway train, clutching my backpack containing all the worldly possessions I own, looking around in wonder. This city's amazing; it's like its own little world, so different to the one I know. Black people mix with white people mix with Asian people mix with Latinos mix with Hispanics. They don't have room for racism here, with New Yorkers packed into subway trains and buses like sardines in a can.

Brushing a strand of auburn hair out of my face, I head for the surface, being pulled along by the current of people, all aiming for one thing; the surface, the city, the freedom. Pulling a scrap of paper from my pocket, the name of my new boss and the address of the NYPD Crime Lab written on it in my scrawling handwriting-my mom always told me I had doctor's handwriting, and, since spending a lot of time in hospital in my youth, I understand what she means completely- I hailed a cab. It wasn't hard; there must have been a dozen idling by the kerb, just a case of who could get there first. One pulls up, and I get in, keeping a tight hold of my bag. This city is full of thieves and bag snatchers, who would take your money as soon as look at you.

'Where to, sweetheart?' he asked in his thick Queens accent.

'NYPD Crime Lab, and call me sweetheart again and you'll be singing soprano, OK?'

He snorted, but didn't say it again, I noticed triumphantly. I stretched in the backseat, grinning. It was going to be fun in this city. Rummaging deep in the pocket of my faded jeans, I pulled out an iPod, and inserted an earphone, clicking play and relaxing for the first time in almost a year. Of course, I had to laugh when the song finished and the next song started. Elliot Minor was relatively new to me, having spent the ten months in Washington, practically living with a technophobe, who could barely work his cell, never mind a computer with any degree of skill. Thank God for patient MIT graduates, was all I could say. Anyway, listening to Elliot Minor's Last Call To New York City seemed oddly appropriate. We pulled up outside what I assumed was the Crime Lab, as the cab driver shuffled round in his seat, squinting at me with his little piggy eyes. 'That'll be twelve bucks.' he grunted, still eyeing my battered converse warily. He must really be terrified. I allowed myself a smirk as I tossed over three five dollar bills. I was still getting used to using paper money again; I had been living on coin operated vending machines in Washington, as were the other agents. I stepped out of the cab, casting my gaze upwards to the 35th floor, where the Crime Lab was located. My eyes were drawn to a man standing at the window, looking out over the city, watching it? Watching over it? My eyesight wasn't good enough to pick up much detail, just that he was a tall man with dark hair. He stood tall, but seemed like the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders, and he also looked quite familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

I am known for being slightly ditzy, and doors reserve some special kind of hatred just for me, so I was relieved when I made it into the building without pulling a door labelled push, or vice versa. I was walking up to the receptionist when my traitorous feet walked right through a puddle and slipped out from underneath me. I went down with a bang, my bag landing on the floor beside me and bursting open, things skittering everywhere, my glasses flying off to the side, skidding across the floor. My face burned, and I knew it was turning scarlet, but before I could begin gathering my things, a dark hand was thrust into my view, holding my glasses delicately. I took the glasses and looked up the arm; past the rolled up shirt-sleeve that was hiding lean muscles, and came face to face with a pair of black rimmed glasses and a concerned face. He had dark chocolate brown eyes, and a warm smile. I grasped the offered hand and smiled back, and his worried eyes filled with relief. 'Thanks.' I said, as he pulled me to my feet, before he crouched down, collecting my stuff for me, I joined him on the floor, quickly grabbing the more personal items, shoving them in my pocket. I took note of the badge and the gun attached to his belt, he didn't look like a detective, so that just left CSI. 'I'm Dr Hawkes.' he said. I struggled to place his accent, but was interrupted by my mouth answering for me.

'Carrie. Nice to meet you. I'm the new CSI. I have a meeting with-' Then the name hit me. Even I'd heard of the famous surgeon turned ME Sheldon Hawkes.

'You have a meeting with?' he prompted gently, and I shook my head, shaking away the confusion that still lingered from countless bumps and bangs over the last few months.

'With uh, a Detective Mac Taylor.' I said, squinting at my scrap of paper. Even I couldn't read my writing sometimes. 'His office is on the-'

'Thirty-fifth floor.' he finished. 'I'm heading up there anyway, I'll show you.' He grinned, showing two rows of even white teeth that a Hollywood starlet would kill for.

'Sure. Thanks Doctor.' I said, hoisting the bag back on my shoulder, wincing as my lower back throbbed in protest.

'Hawkes. Call me Hawkes, everyone does.'

He walked me over to the lift, and just as the doors were closing, I heard a broad Staten Island accent shout 'Hey! Stop the elevator!' A tall dark haired man and a shorter blonde one skidded to halt inside the elevator. Hawkes held the door for them, and they nodded their thanks.

'Morning Doc.' said the blonde one, and I stood in silence, unwilling to interrupt. I did however notice that they were both about my age, and _very _handsome. The taller one turned and saw me standing in the corner, leaning against the wall. Hawkes followed his gaze and answered the unasked question. 'New CSI. Flack, Danny, meet Carrie. Carrie,' he gestured at the tall dark one. 'this is Detective Don Flack,' he then gestured to the blonde man, who was looking at me curiously. My breath caught in my throat. He couldn't possibly know. Could he? I was so caught up in my panic I nearly missed his name. 'and this is Danny Messer; he's a CSI as well.'

I had to say something. I opened my mouth and hoped something witty would come out. I ended up with another 'Nice to meet you.'

I was saved from further torture by the elevator arriving at the Crime Lab floor. I escaped the elevator with a wave to Flack, who seemed to be going up to the forty second floor, for reasons known only to himself, and headed down the corridor, glancing furtively from side to side.

I was thinking about how much I was going to enjoy work if there were all these gorgeous guys around, until I remembered my vow:

_This time, I'd promised myself not to get attached, not to make friends, got involved with anything that couldn't be finished in a phone call._

_It was going to be hard, but that's why I was chosen for this. Me and two others, because we don't get involved, we go in, get the job done and leave, no mess, no tidying up needed._

_But last time, I couldn't help it. I fell for someone, someone I couldn't possibly fall for, someone whose days were numbered. But I fell for him anyway…_

Oh shit.

Suddenly, work seemed a lot less fun.


End file.
